The skybox

We had to conceal our laughter

as if we were children at midnight

you could trip and fall face first

down a dark—down a neon—chasm

so hold on tight and don’t let go until

it’s something subtle like a shift in the wind

or a call of a bird you’ve never heard before

like things with spikes on the outside

a dirty old guitar string that still sounds good

when you do that one thing with your hand

and the other one taps along like a drum

never playing the same thing twice for no one

just to feel a spectrum of waves wobble

through the warmth of suncrept bones

the unknown resonant frequencies of organs

and the relaxation of a jaw they moved

with bands across a desert of my skull

to form a monument of death is watching

waiting for the koto to start plucking itself

in the corner of the skybox of time

28 thoughts on “The skybox

  1. moonskittles

    Only you can make a poem turn and churn my thoughts. Loved it, but as you know, I love your titles the most! They are so clever!

  2. Mils

    Love the movement in this; like a brook bubbling over. Churn is a good verb. And re poems and art that seem to suck: the artist is never the best judge of what works … if you want the best judge, look to their peers …


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